Thursday, June 2, 2016

There Was A Shock

I received quite a shock recently. My father died at
the age of ninety-five. No, that wasn’t the shock. It can’t be a shock when a
ninety-five-year-old man dies. He was a very fortunate man in general, and so it
was at the end. Although he had had a lifelong, painful arthritic condition, he
had never gotten sick at all, and his heart was fine. He simply dropped stone
dead of a stroke one day, about a month ago.

The shock came with the reading of the will. I went to
Arizona to be with my sister, and after a few days she broke out the will and
we took a look. I was mentioned, as is proper in wills. “I have one daughter,
(name), and one son, Frederick Ceely.” It went on to say, “I also have one
daughter-in-law, (name).” That was my ex-wife. The bequest was, in equal parts,
to “my daughter, (name), and my daughter-in-law, (name).” I was left out.

What’s the difference between unreal and surreal? I
should look it up. My feeling at the time was one of those. I’m feeling that
way yet.

The will was a new one, drawn up in December, 2013. I
had filed for divorce in November, 2013. So you’d have to think that those were
related events. Excluded from a will on account of getting divorced, you say?
Surely there was more to it than that! Well yes, there probably was.

Let me say clearly at this point that it was his money,
and that he could do anything that he wanted to do with it. I have always
maintained that anyone who counts on money from the dead is a fool. Strange
things happen. At least he didn’t leave it to a church. On the level of WHAT he
did, I am at peace. All of my inner turmoil comes from wondering about the WHY.

It was not a total shock, actually. I had been
expecting some shenanigans. Something like generation skipping, some kind of
hair-splitting, maybe the employment of trusts. But the will was as simple as
can be. Some introductions; a bequest to two people equally; a no contest
clause (aimed at me); signatures, the end.

I’m afraid that my exclusion stemmed from the fact that
my father had never really approved of me. The divorce was only the last straw.
He had always thought that I was flighty and irresponsible; that I had
generally bad judgment and bad habits; that I was lazy; and that on top of it
all, I was probably a bit stupid. He had probably formed this opinion of me
when I was in high school, the stupid part anyway. It was a fair assumption
based upon my high school grades. I hated high school and was being generally
uncooperative. Very late one evening I listened in on a conversation about me
between my parents. “What’s wrong with him?”
my mother said. “Maybe he’s just not that smart,” replied my father.

My father and I were of very different temperaments,
which I will sum up by pointing out that he had only one job that lasted for
his entire adult life, and he had been very successful at it, while I have had
over fifty jobs in my life, largely without success. (That’s “50” plus jobs; it
wasn’t a typo.) Also because of his temperament, once he had formed an opinion,
nothing could shake him from his belief in his own judgment. He was supremely
confident in all such matters.

He liked to let you know what he thought, too. He
always got his little digs in. When I was in my fifties, I got him a
subscription to the New York Review of Books one year for Christmas. I told him
that I had had a subscription for years and that I enjoyed it very much. On a
subsequent visit to my parents, he gave me a bundle of them. I had already read
my own copies, of course. “You might want to try reading these,” he said. “It’s
hard reading, but you might like some of it.”

Saying things like that hurt me as much as the will
did, and there were many instances over the decades. How would you have felt if
your father had told you when you were seventeen, “not everyone is cut out for
college . . . maybe you should take the test for the Sanitation Department.”

I’m no Donald Trump character, always explaining how
smart I am, so I will not make any such claims here. There’ll be no lists of my
accomplishments. Let’s just say that the record shows that although I may not
be a genius, I am also not exactly stupid.

He was also of the opinion that I was reckless with
money, probably based on the feeling that I had neither made enough money, nor
saved enough money in my life. None of that had been reckless, though. While it
was true that I’d probably spent too much money over time on magazines, records
and the like, it was also true that my habits included a jealous husbanding of “bulk
money,” or “bank money.” I was always aware of which money was set aside for
bills, and what money could be fooled around with. I was also more careful with
credit cards than most people, including my ex-wife.

Well, based upon some or all of the above, my father
zeroed me out at will time. Was he just trying to be practical? Was he trying
to give the benefit to my children in some left-handed way? (Like before I
could squander it.) Did he just love and trust my ex-wife more than me? Or was
it, as I fear and suspect, a final act of disapproval and rejection? I should
never know for sure, absent the discovery of new evidence. It would have been a
great relief to have the extra financial cushion, but I’ll probably be okay
without it. Baring, that is, some extravagant medical catastrophe.

It has been said that “no man is an island.” I think
they mean that no man can exist all on his own, with no support system. If any
man ever were an island, though, that would have been my father. He had the
strong suspicion that everybody but himself was crazy, stupid, or both. He
trusted only his own counsel, and he lived by his own rules. But he’s gone now,
so it’s all water under the bridge. As usual, the living are left to wonder,
and suffer.

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About Me

Mr. C is: a reformed lawyer; a religious atheist; a useful "Handy Man;" an amateur social scientist; a beloved teacher; a well liked husband and father; Ambassador Emeritus from, and to, Planet X; a freelance professor; taxi driver to the stars (Joe DiMaggio and Ronald McDonald, both out of uniform); an excellent fire fighter; an enthusiastic but untalented musician; an experienced counselor; a top-notch disk jockey; an all around get-along-guy; a cunning linguist; a would-be lifestyle victim; a Masonic wannabe; a frequent reader; Professor Irwin Corey's Ph.D. adviser; an accomplished driver and motorcyclist; a famous rockologist; a reliable but indifferent bullshit detective; a poor speller; a proud United States Navy veteran (honorably discharged, barely); the Ayatollah of Ass-o-Hola; a drug legend; a Returned Peace Corps volunteer (Thailand); a generally charming man; nationally and internationally known from coast to coast; a legend in his own mind; a cultural-anthropological critic-at-large; an avenging angel who coolly bides his time; Soul Brother number 37; and a friend to the poor.